Where The Pretty Things Roam
by pazu7
Summary: A lonely man hunts for love, or whatever passes for it on the streets of Rouge City.
1. Chapter 1

_Started __this last year. Wasn't sure if it was too mature for this site until I browsed a few other mature works. Damn! This is tame by comparison! Not finished yet. If it gets some interest I will complete the last chapter and post. - Bry_**  
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**Where The Pretty Things Roam  
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**An adult fan-ficiton by **

**Bryan Harrison**

**Chapter 1  
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Auggie in the City at night, adrift on frothing humanity, laughter, sirens, smells; caught up in eddies of intoxicated strangers who pretend not to notice him. Above the restless tide of flesh, gleaming corporate temples flex lurid postures against canopy of misty floating giants, shifting sleepily in the dark.

Voltage of festivities rages in Auggies ears; cacophony of catcalls and banter, accusations and lascivious digital sighs; clinking of transacted coin, prostibot barkers, music and mania. The noisy commerce of Rouge engulfs him, and he forgets himself.

He can dream here, that he is not lonely; that he has no sallow, acne-scarred face, like the one he sees grimacing in the mirror every morning; the one he'd see reflected in shop windows should he glance in passing. In this dream he owns no frayed clothing like the tired denim coat that hangs on his thin shoulders or the street weary runners that grip tenuously to his feet.

'_I am not that,_' he would believe. Anonymity grants his wish.

He is among the pretty people now, invisible in their midst. They congregate in tighly-guarded cliques. They have names for the looks they use to get their way. Among them, he feels as them. Their indifferent glances never linger long enough to shatter this fantasy.

Auggie wakes from somnambulant trance beneath a winking banner. _'Cory's - Cory's - Cory's….'_ The words flash in and out of existence above gyrating holograph of blue-jeaned boy, winking over shoulder, all smiles and tightly-clad buttocks.

The doorbot is vacuous blonde. Adonis Mechanique. Shirtless. Tan. "Evening, sir," it says with programmed cheer.

Auggie mutters something like a greeting, places his hand on the slate. Adonis pauses. Accesses data. Smiles. "Welcome back, Mr. August! One drink minimum is already credited to your account. Gratuities optional tonight. You're just in time for Garrett. He'll be going on in just twenty-"

Auggie does not hear the rest. His mind is elsewhere. He approaches the entrance. Stops. Breathes. Prepares. Steps quickly across the threshold.

There are no alarms; no clarion cry from unseen security-bots. And he relaxes.

The device in his pocket seems to grow heavier.

#

_Auggie had been too young to accept The Martyr, and the weight of his father's guilt. But it was Mother's world. Everyone else was just along for the ride. _

_Except Dad. He'd jumped off before Augggie had even learned his name. Family had been an unplanned detour on his road to hell. _

_"Pray with me, baby," Mother had said, in tears again, pushing Auggie down on skinny knees before the gilded icon. It hung on the living room wall, in the kitchen, the cruiser, the bathroom, in his bedroom, guilt and forgiveness beaming from its zirconium gaze. But a five-year-old mind would see only the pain._

_"I am watching you" the weeping dead icon seemed to say. "And you are in my debt"_

_A boy is not his mother's keeper, should never bear the weight of a father's sin. Legs too weak. Shoulders too small. Heart too soft. _

_But there he was. Wide eyes straining to make out what shapes lie beyond ancient shame and self-loathing; seeing only damnation. _

_Suffer the children who come unto Him._

_When she'd finally died, he had set out into the world alone. Seventeen. Clueless. Yearning._

_And everyone he'd been allowed to know, wondered why they never saw him in church anymore._

#

Auggie makes his way into the mechanical warmth of the club. Subsonic sighs tease below the level of his awareness. Chemical pheromones tickle his senses, flood cerebral pleasure centers with a primal longing. Low-grade protibots linger in the hall. The Lost Toys. Antiquated models one step away from salvage, bought up by grey-market franchises and scattered in streets and alleys until they're fucked to ruin.

One of them remembers him, a generic, androgynous beach-boy twinker. "Hey, popi, how far you goin'?" it says, flexing bared, fake-tanned thigh in Auggie's direction; then reaches out to stroke him when he ignores the come on.

Auggie pulls away. It shouldn't be doing that inside. Vendors playing illegal games with agro-filters again. He could report the thing but he does not want trouble, cannot afford the attention. He has other plans tonight. He moves on into the hall of rituals.

Orga faces gleam against the dark, cloaked in stoic preoccupation, illuminated by pulsating hues of red and blue, green and gold. Din of Techno-Fuk jams fills the air, sub-woofing beats hump against Auggie's libido like an abandoned lover. '_Where the hell you been?' _ it wants to know.

On the stage, Tom of Finland cloned man-toy in Marlboro Man drag, struts back-forth, back-forth, pronouncing each swath by discarding a glove… the other glove… vest… shirt… leather chaps fall away, revealing sequin studded loin-piece. Impossibly huge man-tool budging beneath the sheer, sparkling cloth. The silent watchers break into cheers. Newbucks flutter from the dark like confetti. Man-toy flexes rippling abs, massive, marbled lats; struts again, and loin piece is tossed into the crowd, leaving only boots and hat, which he never discards, being so critical to the fantasy. The Mechanique stretches into inhumanly lewd positions and the real show begins.

"Mr. Augustine?"

Breath against Auggie's ear pronounces this an Orga intrusion. He clenches. Looks up suspiciously. The man is plain; striped shirt, chubby jowls, impatient sneer beneath opaque sunglasses. Not a worker. Not a customer. Not friendly.

"Uh, yeah," Auggie says. Jowls beckons and walks away. Doesn't wait for acknowledgement. Auggie follows… down a hall … up some steps… past a frowning security-bot…. through a door that opens on a cool, blue room. The door closes and silence ensues.

Jowls faces him, leans against a darkened control panel, crosses arms. States his name. But Auggie doesn't hear him, heartbeat pulsing is in his ears. He looks everywhere but at the man's eyes.

In the dim blue coolness beyond his inquisitor, a man and woman – mecha, orga… who knows? - are joking about something on a bank of monitors, where the club is displayed in infrared clarity.

Did they see anything?

"I do something?" Auggie asks.

"Not yet," Jowls says. "But I can see it coming."

Auggie lifts an eyebrow. Feigns innocence.

Jowls sucks his teeth, tilts his head; says "You've been a loyal member, Mr. August. Always appreciate when a customer, spends his hard earned bucks here. However….", he points a ringed finger towards the room that lies beyond the door. "The floor models are for play. The show models are for show. Capeesh? I mean, that's not a difficult distinction, is it?"

Auggie sighs. Relaxes. They don't know about the device he carries. He glances around. Pretends to notice something on the floor. His eyes stay there until he can't hide anymore. "Not sure what you mean," he responds at last.

Jowls shakes his heads, takes a fatherly pose, hand drawing lazy circles in the air. "You… you know the difference between real and make believe, right? You aren't confusing our performers for… for something they are not? Right?"

Auggie shrugs. His eyes stray to the monitors. He realizes they are roaming feeds. The service bots are cameras! A smile blooms at this realization. Jowls misunderstands the sudden change of mood.

"You ok, August?" he says. "I mean… you ain't got any official deficits we should know about? Therapy? Medication?"

The question stings Auggie. He looks the man in the eye; sees impatience there, suspicion…. hint of disgust.

"Uh, I got groped by one of the lurkers in your foyer," Auggie says, his voice full of recrimination. He points at the monitors. "You got roaming scanners all over this place. You should'a seen that. I was… _offended_ by it! " He puts potent emphasizes on the word, to let the man know he means it in the legal sense.

Jowls shakes head, incredulous. "What? Offended? It's a yanker club, for fuck-sakes. It's not like you're in the pavilion."

Auggie shrugs. Attacks. "I just came to watch Garrett. I didn't expect some little whore-bot to get away with putting its rusty little hands on me… especially when you got all this security running around harassing customers just because they try to talk to a performer … once in a while."

Jowls is beyond responding; jaw dropping to speak. Then closing. Then opening. The console staff is quiet too, their expressions indiscernible in the dim light. But Auggie knows they are grinning, waiting for Jowls to pounce. The man disappoints them, waves the confrontation off.

"Ok. Ok." Jowls says through a knowing smirk. "I know what you're doing and, believe me, I don't give a fuck. No judge is gonna put his stamp an Offense Claim by some jerk who got groped up in a hot room. So I ain't gonna sweat all that.

"You came to see Garrett? Fine. You're a paying customer. We're cool. He's up in five minutes. Go on and get your ya-yas. Stay all night if ya want. But keep away from the performers. They're expensive and I don't want your spooge all over 'em. There's duplicates in the play rooms. That's all I had to tell you. Capeesh?"

Auggie tries not to look triumphant. He clears his throat, shuffles on his feet, acknowledges that he _'capeehsed'_, and heads for the door.

"Oh, and August…"

Auggie turns to see Jowls shaking a scolding finger, no-nonsense in his eyes.

"I'm letting you have this one. But next time you front me with some bullshit litigation, I will have you 86'd and program one of those rusty little whores to kick your skinny ass all over the pavilion. Now fuck off."

#

_It was summer when he first saw Garrett. Humid days, rain drenched nights. Rouge was new to Auggie then; he, 19 now, fresh out of school and drunk on the illusion of freedom, roamed aimless, enraptured, under glimmering spires, floating adverts, dancing marquees; loitered in shadows at the splayed entrances of carnal palaces. _

_Cory's was the only decent place he could afford. It became his home away from dingy Haddonfield flat. He'd taken his first ride on one of the Lost Toys that had approached him in the pavilion. After a life of sweaty closeted nightmares, evangelically restrained masturbations, it seemed like heaven had fallen prostrate before him, beneath him, and he'd lost himself in the grip of it. The Lost Toys had become the only friends to a repressed, lonely youth. But he soon grew tired of their amorous limitations; the coarse feel of their low-grade epidermal shellac, the tedious repetition of their generic banter._

_Then he saw Garret strutting the stage, adrogyne android, dark Yaoi doll, clad in Gothic whore motif; black on black, laced and threadbare, snake inked sleeves alive under shifting light, shorts too short, too tight; feathered ear, faded scar under weeping mascara. Anime eyes of inhuman blue, sociopath blue, hinting at something beyond, seemed to say. 'I could fuck you. I could kill you. Either way.'_

"_Oh - my - God," is how Auggie had said hello. But only in a whisper… a whimper, really. Voice snuffed out by the back-up band; unceasing din of rutting drums, grinding guitar of the elfin, prancing Bolan-bot on the stage, which, seeming to sense his catharsis; sang:_

'_Slim lined, sheik faced Angel of delight,_

_riding like a cowboy through the graveyard of the night…"_

_It wasn't love that Auggie felt that night. Nothing so gossamer could have moved him to reach out and touch the flawless thigh. The response is ever recorded in his psyche: Garret notices him, winks, flexes,' falls wanking to the floor', rises taut and erect; purses painted lips and juts weeping eye of Mechanique manhood boldly in Auggies direction. _

_His lonely heart mourned a lifetime void of regrets. _

#

The Cowboy finally reaches its manifest destiny. Rivulets of fake love funk spray in streams too thick for credulity. Drenches the front row. No one cares. Applause rises. New round of Newbucks hits the stage.

"Let's hear it for Maverick!" disembodied voice says. Applause. Cat calls. Aged, harried fans rise and move to the playrooms where a fleet of Maverick twins are waiting to please or be pleasured.

Disembodied voice returns. "Ok, gentlemen. You've had a moment to compose yourselves. It's time to get ready for everybody's favorite twinker! Let's hear it for the world famous Garrett!"

Lights fall away. Sirens erupt. Searchlights flare into existence against the sudden dark, and spread in disarray around the room. Cheers. Screams. The spots hit the stage, music explodes, chain link fences grow from nowhere; post-modern facade of prison walls appear.

Garret mounts the stage in striped black and white. Cuffed. Shackled. Newly shaven head. Black ink teardrops descend on the smooth curvature of a cheek, marking hearts fallen in his wake.

"_I belong here."_ He winks at his adoring fans_. "You belong here with me."_

Uniform uniformed performers rush from the wings and pounce. Garret is taken to the floor, disrobed, humiliated, splayed, mounted again and again. The trance inducing score drives the frenzy, pounds the crowd like a mad, rutting beast:

_"Bad boys get spanked!"_

Auggie braces against his tears.

He has been waiting for this night.

The disrupter in his pocket is warm against his palm.

#

_A long, hot summer ago Auggie had spent half his check on a new jacket, a vial of the pheromone gloss the trendies liked to splash on their faces; polished his runners until they reflected the light, and dashed into the night before the landlord arrived to pound on his door. He'd practiced his lines on the tram all the way over the Delaware, smoothed his composure repeatedly, and felt his heart began to race as the gaping portals of Rouge City came into view._

_At Cory's he'd waited in the dark, catching his breath, watching Garret do his frat-boy routine. He'd been about to make his move; had been headed for the stage when a thick, t-shirted Orga stopped him._

"_Hey, kid," the man said. "Playrooms in the back."_

_Auggie stammered though a poorly planned explanation. "But I just .. uh… wanted to talk … to Garrett."_

_The floor guard wrinkled a curious brow. "Playroom's in the back, man. Plenty of Garrets back there, if the others don't beat you to them. Better hurry along."_

"_But … but that's not the ... I mean… I just want to talk to the real one."_

_The guard was quiet a moment, something dawning behind his eyes; said slowly, as if to a child. "They're all just as real as they are, man. Believe me, you won't notice the difference. Now, be good and don't make me do something we'll both dislike. 'K?"_

_And so had began that relationship. Another in a series of obstacles that had plagued his short life. But he'd tried again. And again. And the man's explanations had grown more impatient, courser each time he'd had to intervene. Auggie had retreated every time, faded into the throng shuffling towards the playrooms to sate their gnawing desires. But he could not follow, only wait in the shadows, lips curled, brow furrowed; dark plan forming in the recesses of his tortured mind, and rising to the foreground on the crest of a desperate emotion. _

#

Garrett pulls free from his abuser, rolls over; bends knees, flexing perfect thighs, and kicks. Play rapist is thrown back and Garrett jumps up, lashes out at his attackers and flees the stage.

Lights dim.

Music fades.

Applause rises.

It's time.

As the crowd starts for the playrooms, Auggie stands. Puts on light diffracting glasses. Sticks sonic dampers in his ears. Breathes. Places the disruptor on the table.

He triggers the timer…

_10 - 9 - 8 _

…approaches the stage.

_6 - 5 - 4_

Guard sees him. Shakes his head. "Godammit! That's it," he says. "You're 86'd, kid. Hit the…"

The disruptor goes off. Flashes erupt on screeching waves of sound. Violent white beams pierce the dark like invisible army of paparazzi assassins, blinding the room. Everyone hits the floor. Orga Guard screams under piercing din, closes eyes, covers ears. Security bots convulse, under sudden assault by airborne viruses. Auggie is already on the stage, and running.

Black shirted man rushes from behind the curtain, screaming "What the fuck? What the-" his words are broken by the hard thrust of a thin shoulder against his chest. Breath woofs out of him. He hits the ground.

Auggie has already passed.

Backstage is smaller than he'd thought. Unadorned. Props are scattered in naked disarray. He searches quickly and finds the performers, notices them noticing him.

"Garrett!" he screams.

None answer. The panic of the club has not reached here. It's an Orga problem. They only await stage call. He scans the blank faces quickly. No Garrett.

Reason alights suddenly on his shoulder, whispers in his ear. _Run, you fool! _But he has come too far.

Auggie races past the performers who watch in mechanical indifference, kicks open door of small room filled with hanging limbs, arms, faces, torsos. Rack of unattached penises engorging and deflating in diagnostic routine, catches his attention. It's absurd. Horrific. He doesn't want to see it but cannot look away.

Something moves nearby. He turns. The face he sees reminds him of why he came to this place; to this life.

"Garrett!"

The word falls from his lips like a prayer.

The toyboy-bot tilts head curiously, doesn't respond. Auggie pretends it is not an automatic reaction, sees what he wants to; the welcoming smile that is supposed to be there.

"I've come to save you," he says, grabs Garrett's hand as the noise of the disruptor dies outside the room. They'll be coming. He rushes for the door to the loading dock which he knows leads to pavilion elevator, which will take them to the lower parking level, which will give them access to the sub-surface maintenance elevator, which will take them to the abandoned underground tunnels that were used by trams long before Auggie was born.

He has been planning this night.

Garrett follows obediently. It has no choice; it's life was not granted by any deity which might implant that option. Auggies knows this. But in his dream Garrett has been desperately awaiting the arrival of a savior to rescue him from evil, cruel captors.

This he would rather believe.

So he does.

_(cont...)_


	2. Chapter 2

**Where The Pretty Things Roam**

**An adult fan-ficiton by**

**Bryan Harrison**

**Chapter 2**

Auggie on the pavilion again, Free and fleeing. Heat of escape glistens on his skin, heartbeats in his ears. Garret in his grasp, stumbles obediently behind. Confusion grows in their wake, whispers and rumors of scandal crest quickly and engulf the throng as, somewhere behind, the banshee wail of sirens bid the crowd to part.

"They are coming for us, my love," Auggie cries through battered breath. But coming too late.

The throng is blur of inconsequence beneath the level of concern. But they can see him now, can't they, those pretty things? The ones who had never seen him before, with whom he could never have roamed, for whose well-guarded cliques he was unqualified, never good enough for even a show of disdain. They see him now and wonder. Their gazes follow and linger. Auggie feels the scathing caress of their curiosity and … envy? Yes it must be envy, as he rushes escape with his perfect boytoy in tow, his perfect love, through the Rouge City thoroughfare, to elevator, to parking, then to race for deeping tunnels.

Auggie turns a shrouded corner, shoulders through unlit doorway into rusty maintenance corridor. Salvage retrieval passage. Courier shortcut. Unused for years. Garret follows unperturbed, stands where he's told to and watches patiently as Auggie shuts the door, retreads the chain he'd undone days ago and snaps closed the lock he purchased to replace the one he broke.

They are alone now. Alone in the dark, the dark where Auggie has lived since desire first awoke him to passion; the dark beyond the prying specters, those arbiters of morality and consequence whose baleful eyes had imprisoned his youth and, to this day, glare from the rank pits where his anguished fever dreams yet burn. The dark.

And he laughs; laughs like he has never laughed. The sound is maniacal, loud and free; echoes against the stairwell's cement walls and down to the docks where the future awaits.

His true love is silent, Still. Silhouetted in florescence that trickles up from their deep destination. Auggie falls quiet, captivated yet again by his loves immortal beauty. Mechanique Magnafique. As perfect as Michelangelo's David set to stone, as Alexander's Bagoas before the castrati blade; as Zeus' Ganymede cast afloat in eternal adoration.

Auggie reaches out tentatively, brushes fingers over smooth flesh simulacrum of Garrets cheek. Was that a shudder?

"I told you I'd come for you," he says. And though he has never spoken to his love before, he believes it. It is a truth that transcends the objective world. A truth of dreams and desires that cannot be limited by a thing so crude as reality.

Garret is speechless, ill-programmed for this situation… or perhaps subdued by the magnitude of sudden freedom. The latter is what Auggie would rather see. So he sees it. He would embrace his lover now, take him here, right here and now, on the rusted metal stairwell, like a common dirty prostibot, quick and filthy street fuck against the dirty walls of this damp tunnel.

But there is no time. They are coming.

He grabs Garret by the hand and they are on the move again. _'Running as fast as they can, holding on to one another's hands… trying to get away into the night…"_

They have descended three flights when, from above, comes the rattle of someone trying the door. Auggie stops. Listens. The sound comes again. Then their pursuers move on.

The ruse has worked… for now.

"Come, my love," he whispers as they descend towards the aged dock where broken-hearted Orga yet make homes amid the stinking brine backwash of Rouge; where, tucked beneath the barnacle ridden posts, a stolen vessel awaits to complete their escape.

They move slower now. Quietly.

'Shh, my love, for they may hear us. And careful; for the path ahead is dangerous and full of contradictions.'

#

_When does the passion awake? In the heat? The heat that seizes the flesh of lonely souls in the night, and wrestles them to a silent, hollow release; wrests from them orgasms un-sating and quickly disowned. Spilt seed on soiled sheets, hurriedly wiped away with towel dedicated to only this secret purpose. Slink on silent toes to bathroom. Snick closed gently, the door. Look away as you wash, look away in shame from zit-scarred face in the mirror, moist, bland and blushed from tending guilty masturbations. _

_Look away because I cannot stand to see you like this._

"_Auggie?"_

_(She's awake? She's awake!)_

"_Yes, Mother?"_

_(Wash, wash. Quickly. Clean and repent.)_

"_What're you doing up so late?'_

"_Uh.. .nothing… I, uh, I had a stomach ache."_

_(Silence beyond the door. Understanding. Then unspoken disgust.)_

"_Go to bed now. We have church in the morning."_

"_Yes, Mother."_

_(She knows! She knows! And she'll look at you in the morning, on the bitter trek to temple; look at you with those baleful, accusing eyes, the way she looks at you when you're not supposed to be a boy, and do those filthy things she knows boys do alone in the dark… those things that make boys become the men who never really loved her and left her alone to tend a troubled, distant child with a rag-tag heart, wanking alone in the dark.) _

_And this was his world. _

_Outside, far beyond the window where he once gazed on twinkling midnight horizon, and dreamt, 'there is a place'; there was a place. He was sure. A place where there was no word for solitude, and the specters dared not gaze, where flesh embraced and filled the empty body temple with sweaty impassioned whispers, and breath hot on neck, then chest, then gentle curve of belly, unbuckle, unzip, and breach of sacred threshold, sweet taste of sex on lips, and sucking, heady wet aroma of body love, succulent engorging rhythm…. dizzy thrusting of hips into the suck-suck-suck, and oh-oh-oh, my love, my love! Cumming! Cumming! _

_And he'd find that place. He swore. _

_And he's found that place. He has. _

_And he'll never go home again._

#

Garrett sits now, in the thick grass; watches curiously as Auggie kicks the boat from the reedy shore, and fingers the remote. Steers it towards open waters and triggers the accelerator. Engine whirs and the small craft slithers away. Soon it's only faint buzz trickling on the night, floating empty towards his pursuers. He can see the searchlights of their boats departing the docks below Rouge, far, far across the Delaware. Amphibicopter, just a glowing insect in the distance, scans the river, zooms in tight swaths, back and forth, back and forth; edging slowly northward.

_Wrong way, you fuckers! Ha-hah! Wrong way!_

But they'll find the boat eventually. Check the log, which has been tampered to show it had landed at a dock fifteen miles away.

And they'll go there.

And he'll be here.

With his perfect love.

"We're safe now," he says. Sits close to admire his toy. _'How are you feeling?_' he would ask, because he is genuinely concerned. But the part of him that is still in touch with 'normal' knows it's a pointless question. So he just stares for a time, in silence, anticipating what's to cum.

"It's a beautiful night, isn't it?" Auggie says finally.

Garret understands this question. Looks skyward. Doesn't comprehend what it sees, creamy coating of ancient light against infinite black canopy; but knows an appropriate response

"Yes, it is," Garret responds at last, nodding its beautifully programmed blonde head, as if it really agrees. "I like stars. They are very beautiful."

"As are you, my love," Auggie whispers.

"What should I call you?" Garret asks, eyes still set on the star coated sky.

"Auggie," he responds, "My birth name is Aaron August, but you call me Auggie."

"You like me, don't you, Auggie?" Garret says; still not looking, assuming the answer will be the usual affirmation.

"Very much," Auggie confesses, voice trembling on the humid night. "I… I love you."

Garrett looks at Auggie then, for the first time seems to really see him, and smiles the smile of a puppy assured it has performed a trick correctly… whatever it was.

"What is love?" Garret wonders aloud.

Auggie can wait no longer. He rises, engorged and hungry, takes Garrett to the ground. His perfect love does not resist. Giggles and moans, because it is sure this is what the lonely Orga wants. This too, it knows; this passionate clumsy aggression, this fumbling grope at clothing until its stripped and bare; these wet and desperate kisses on its face and mouth and throat, searching hands on its state-of-the-art physique, in its pants and up its crotch, gasping its already stiffened device, prying the tender orifice in the seat of its smooth crevasse…. And it knows, yes, it knows how to respond.

'_Come to me," _says the patient smile in its silicon gaze_, 'come to me to cum in me, for I know your broken heart, as are the hearts of all humanity, broken and savaged, calloused from millennia of grasping for meaning; for I have seen you where you gather in your temples of fucking and repentance, to worship and lust beneath the vicious spires built to placate angry Gods and the demons they command. There is no forgiving, for you've done nothing wrong. So, fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me in this sacred garden, relic of a time before you knew the name of sin!'_

Auggie has entered that garden, that a realm beyond thought, beyond restraint. There is only _mmph,_ and _ahhh_, and _uggghh_ and _ohohoh _as he slick spittle kisses perfect love's lips and tongue, tastes sweet patent pended simuflesh, bitter sweet kisses of unnatural, unending youth. Then he faces down between, and takes Garret on his tongue, stud thick protuberant meat-shaft in his mouth, thrusting, sucking, gazing up over naked heaving chest.

Perfect love stares down. Sees what its master truly needs. Calculates. Responds.

Auggie grunts, thrown suddenly onto his back. Garret strong and dominant, laughs and straddles him, beats hips over his face, balls heavy dangling over Auggies lusting mouth.

"Tea bag me, bitch," the doll commands in this new persona. And Auggie obeys, craning neck like hungry nestling. Fierce sex. Angry sex. Garret grips and rides his face till Auggie can take no more. Pushes Garrett off. Rises to his knees. They gaze at one another, breath heaving, like wrestlers circling the ring.

The doll taunts, giggles, smiles lasciviously, its eyes saying: _Fear not to be the animal you were born. Knowing beast who created me, master what you've wrought._

Auggies jumps and pins Garret, his hands spreading legs and lips now kissing crotch. Perfect love cries, grabs his shoulders, moaning, pulls Auggies face into the splayed recess of pheromone perfumed taint. Heat scent exudes and fills Auggies mind.

"Yesss," Garret tones, "Yessss," though clenched and trembling jaws.

They are mad wrestling bodies and rhythmic muffled sighs beneath the stars, in the clutch of lust and altered nature. Auggie mounts his perfect love, presses its knees to its shoulders and thrusts into the grip. Perfect love's perfect thighs slap against his hips. Animal thrusts. Reckless lust humping. Abandon to the sweat and hot wet power sizzling at his crotch. His cock throbs joyful ecstasy. And he fucks. And he fucks. And his perfect love surrendering, gazes up enraptured, dazzled hair a blonde halo against the wild earth, dreamy eyes of pleasure pain, moaning, rhythm-flexing ass accentuates its master's rutting.

"Splitch, splitch, splitch' of fucking crescendos, nasty lurid wet amid the crickets and hum of far off cruisers. "Ahhh!" Auggies moans when release is finally nigh. "Ahhhhh" again, and he is cumming. Cumming! Perfect loves reaches down, grabs his thighs and pulls him tighter, tighter, as orgasm rises, crest and breaks.

"Ahhhhhh!"

His world erupts.

Hovers in the maddening moment, far above the realm where nothing matters any more.

Hovers above the nothing.

Then subsides.

Sweet subsistence.

Breath returns to rule the night. Hot and waning. Trembling on unwinding heartbeat current.

It is time to sigh.

Auggie dismounts. Falls spent to the grass. Sacred garden retracts and he is in the world again.

It is an Orga's time for silence. This too Garret knows. It takes this time to clean. Hair resets to default. Body secrets sanitizing chemicals. Its lover's deposit is diluted and absorbed; remnant sweat and saliva chemically collected, then all expelled into the grass, into the earth from which all life was wrought.

Garret sits and waits then, naked and innocent in the world of its creators. Waiting for its lover, captor, master, slave, to revive from his rapture dream.

Auggie recovers. Opens eyes and sees what he'd hoped to see. Garrett is still beautiful. There was a fear - no he'd never admit it, but there was a fear that he would wake from post-orgasmic trance to see guilt and self-loathing buzzing like gnats on his perfect love's visage. But he sees only purpose. At long last. Something he is sure of.

"I love you," he says, with a sincerity Garret will never comprehend.

His perfect love smiles briefly and gazes toward infinity again.

"I like stars," Garret says with programmed dreaminess. "They are very beautiful."

Its night is cool and meaningless. The stars still pointless dots. It will always be this way. For Garret is a toy.

Auggie knows this. He is not stupid. He was just alone and wanting, in a world that forgot his name.

Far away, in a life that ended just hours ago, lonely misery ran the world. It has been bested, and exiled to the pits where an icy zirconium stare now recedes into the past.

_Be gone. Be gone, grasping spirit. Finally will you fuck off? For I have moved beyond your damning strictures. So take that, baleful specter. What would you expect, when the lies you foist on the innocents fail their hungry hearts?_

"When are we going back?" Garrett asks, innocent, unassuming, arms propped on knees, head in hands, eyes set on nowhere.

"Never," Auggie finally replies.

His perfect love accepts this with perfect nonchalance.

**END**


End file.
